Six months. It took six months.

Month one was easy. I didn't waste time with detours and secret hideouts. I flew to Hungary and took a bus to Budapest. My technique was sloppy, but I didn't care; I wanted to be found as soon as possible. I used my real name, walked in the sunlight, and rented a real apartment. Romanian was a challenge to learn, and I spent my nights listening to the neighbors above me when they talked over dinner. Excitement turned into concern as the days droned on, suns setting outside the window. That first month I didn't even see a TV screen, and it wasn't until I was leaving a café one morning that I saw the news.

SHIELD CRUMBLES. HYDRA REVEALED. HELICARRIERS CRASH INTO POTOMAC. ALEXANDER PIERCE ARRESTED. CAPTAIN AMERICA ALIVE.

Reporters spoke in rushed dialect, large white letters zipping across the screen. My heart slammed against the walls of my chest, coffee abandoned, my mind unable to hold on to a question before another took its place. I'd ran into the main street, buying every international newspaper I could find, scouring the reports of a streetfight in Washington involving a man with a metal arm and Captain America. My father was in prison, his cult uncovered, the nation in a state of unrest, and all I wanted was to know where he was.

They were still looking for him. The US government issued a statement that he was a wanted man. No one had been captured, no suspects listed. I waited, and waited, and waited. One month became three and the fall turned the city a burnt orange. The first day I noticed the leaves changing was when the world learned his name, when I first heard it. James Buchanan Barnes. 'Bucky.'

HYDRA's secrets were broadcast to the world and I devoured everything I could, every little detail down to the amount of voltage they used to rub his brain dry. I cried, every day, usually in the evening when I sat alone in front of the fireplace, maps and newspaper clippings in my wrought hands.

Seventy years, seventy years he'd been a brick in their pyramid, killing hundreds for their agenda. There had been a picture of him in the Smithsonian for three months and I never knew about it. He'd existed for two lives, and he'd had both taken from him. No, he couldn't be dead, right? I hadn't played a part in this, had I?

I like to think I'm not as much of an asshole as I used to be, that I at least tried to be better for someone else, to give him a shot at freedom even if it meant compromising mine. Isn't that how saints are made? When they commit the ultimate act of selflessness?

Even if it meant keeping his mind intact for one more day I would have done it all over again, and I can't quite decide whether that's stupid or justified.

I could blame who I was on my roots, on the years of isolation in Connecticut boarding schools, on the fact that I'm an only child, on the principle of Alexander Pierce's child-rearing ability. When I left home that first time it was because he'd told me I would train to be a SHIELD agent that summer after I graduated, that I had no choice in the matter. I didn't think it was rebellion, I didn't think I was unruly or wild, and didn't give a shit if anyone thought it was.

I ran from D.C. thinking 'this is it, I will never go back.' I saw a bumper sticker on a truck at the bus station that read "West Virginia: Wild and Wonderful," and I decided that was where I needed to go. I met that crew of stoners just inside the state and asked them to take me inland; that's where I developed the formula for meeting strangers, the method in which I covered my tracks, how I could become a different person and a great liar.

I didn't wake up until their van was flipped on an empty highway, Andrews Sisters playing on the radio, pitch black outside. My shoulder'd been cut and I thought sparks had popped in the engine when I climbed out, that the sound I heard couldn't have been bullets, but then I saw him. That red star on his shoulder barely lit up in the blaze of the fire he'd set, all of him a shade of black. The streetlights had been blown and the road was abandoned, miles of trees absorbing my voice.

Even despite New York, the Avengers, HYDRA and whatever else is out in the universe, I have never been one to be afraid. Instead I've only gotten angry, red in the face, fists flying. That's how I got to know my soldier first, as a blind swing to his cheek, cat-claws and screaming.

He brought me home every time. Even when I fought my hardest, when I cussed him out and kicked below the belt I was dragged back to my doorstep like game.

Those first two years I balanced on the line of hating him when he caught me and liking it when I got caught, because being getting caught meant seeing him, trying to decipher who he was, getting him to remember me. Fighting felt like flirtation, and seeing his face curl in recognition when he heard my name made the broken bones worth it.

Paraguay, Egypt, they were beautiful places that I thought I might make a home if he didn't catch me, might give that word a meaning. I don't think I've ever tried to make places significant; they were fleeting, means to get me farther away from my father and my fate. Home used to be nonexistent-after that it took the form of a person.

Three months turned into five and I adapted to life in that city, trying to learn it, to make it home-like. My clothes were less flashy, less East Coast, and my behavior was humble. I made actual friends and shared stories about my life, the real one.

At night I would wander, looking into alleys, tracking the shadows, hoping that I would catch a glint of Vibranium in my vision, see a silhouette on the rooftops. I couldn't go back to the states, not when there was nothing left.

I told myself I would hold out, would make my life mine finally. That bratty eighteen year old girl could still be heard, scratching and fighting: 'I will never go back.'

But still I sat alone in that apartment at night, begging up at the ceiling that I could find him, that karma would cut me some slack for all the times I up and disappeared. I searched until five months became six, and I can't believe I'd been looking for black fatigues, for a flashy prosthetic arm and an arsenal of weapons, because that's not what he looked like at all.

I'd promised the older neighbors upstairs that I would cook them dinner if they could help me with my Romanian one evening, and I went to a market that was open late, grabbing tea and spices. When I started to walk back it was snowing, tiny weightless flecks burrowing into my coat and hair. I pulled my scarf tighter, walking with my legs close, trying to stay warm.

I had my chin angled down, breathing hotly into my hands, having forgotten the gloves yet again, and when I looked up I saw a man at the end of the street who was wearing a baseball cap, and I thought "how American."

That was it. That was all that I'd noticed, just his hat, and I felt the icy wind fly against my face. I almost looked down to bury myself further in my scarf, almost disregarded how easily he handled the cold, how he walked into the breeze like he couldn't feel it.

I squinted, lifting up and watching his steps, feeling myself step a little faster, my heart pumping warm blood a little quicker. That gait…He walked ahead of me, long hair hidden under a jacket. No black cargo pants, no semi-automatic at his back, no prosthetic. He wore two black gloves, arms frozen at his sides. My heart was slamming against my ribs now, my face burning like we were back in that desert heat, hands red and shaky. The tin box of tea jingled in its bag, stuffed inside my coat.

James Buchanan Barnes. The words sang through my body, reverberating in the winding ridges of my brain. Was it? Was it really? I followed him for another block, getting closer and closer, keeping as quiet as possible, muscles tight.

Flakes of snow fell into my eyelashes, fogging my vision, and I felt like it was now or never, right now or not at all, so I stopped, watching his figure gain distance. Nevergobacknevergoback. The words hung on the roof of my mouth, letters linking together, and in a robotic movement I opened my mouth.

"Bucky Barnes?" The words had never been used, snowflakes melting as soon as they landed on my lips. I could almost hear them hit the ground when he stopped, hands flexing into a fist. Oh my God.

He stood still, standing away from my vision, and my knees locked taut when he turned, three steps to face me. I could see my breath leave me in pants, visible in the air. There he was, eyes wide, those eyebrows knit together as if everything I ever said was in another language. My soldier stood before me, staring me down.

I took three steps forward, nearing him, my eyes taking in every detail, every line of his face and mouth. Not a soldier, no. Bucky Barnes. I want to say it, to ask that question, to ask him if he knows, if he remembers, but my heart's beating too fast; my brain's short-circuiting. Right before I can speak he says something, something small, fast on his lips.

"Ruby."

He speaks my name and the spell is broken, my feet carrying me forward, mind quiet, and I forget all caution when I shoot my arms up and wrap around him, fingers clutching the back of his collar, my face buried into his clavicle, chest pressed close. He's freezing, and I can feel his heartbeat thunder against mine.

The tears mix with melted snow and I feel him hesitate, slowly coming up to speed before his hands are on my ribs, then the crown of my head, his mouth close to my ear, inhaling sharply. I shake once, my hands tightening on his jacket, and I can just barely speak, a broken smile pressing into his neck.

"You're late." I say it as if I might crumble, using what's left of my humor, and I can feel his body vibrate with a chuckle, his throat moving against my temple. He laughed. It took me six months to get to this point, to right now, and I hear my own voice in my head. 'This is it. I will never go back.'

"Consider us even." His voice is warm, scratchy, and I can feel his breath in my hair. I pull away and look at him like it's for the first time, relearning his face, reading those Sinatra eyes. I touch his chin, my fingers frozen, and he takes them in his hand, the wool of his gloves warming them instantly.